


Contrapasto

by Dragomir



Series: Blank Canvas [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Paint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Iron Bull makes an appearance, M/M, Mild D/s, Self-Hatred, but it's really minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The meeting with his father in Redcliffe leaves Dorian off-kilter. Solas is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrapasto

**Author's Note:**

> I was saving this fic for a rainy day. Hope y'all enjoy it.

Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. He is _worthless._

Stumble down the stairs. Can’t let anyone see. Perfect. Perfection. He is an altus. Alti are not _weak_. _You are not my son_. Fall to the ground. Can’t move. _You are not my son_. Weak. Worthless. Stupid. Abomination. _Mistake_.

Hand on his arm, pulling gently upwards. Dorian sobs. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Pulled through a door. Door shuts with a click. Hand in the small of his back. Soothing. Small circles – it is comfort. He shakes like he’s been struck anyways.

“Color?”

“Blue.”

Hum of approval. _Mistake. You are not my son. Worthless. Abomin_ —

“You know how to stop this.” Command. Don’t think. Follow it. _Abomination. Stupid. Worthless_. Dorian removes his clothing mechanically, folds each piece, puts them on a low crate. Follow orders. Follow orders. Be a good boy, follow orders. Washcloth in the bucket, on the floor. Sponge lightly to remove grime. Follow orders. There are rules here. Be a good boy and follow them. Clean up. Move softly. Eyes closed. Don’t open them or you have to think.

_Stupid. Worthless. Abomination. You are not my son._

Hand on his arm, leading him. Dorian keeps his head bowed, breathing slowing from panicked to merely anxious. He is safe here. Follow orders. Be silent. Don’t move when you’re placed somewhere. Statue. Doll. Puppet. _Loved_. _You are loved._

Each limb arranged into place, just so. Warm hands stroking over tense muscles. Dorian relaxes with a sigh at each pass of the warm hands. Rough calluses. He is safe. Calm. Different. Not a mistake.

Living statue. Doll. Puppet. Canvas. This is calm. He does not think. Brush on his chest, circling a nipple before dragging up to his collarbone in a broad stroke. Repeated on the other side. Sensual. Safe. Safe. This won’t hurt him. Grip on his chin, gentle but firm. Head tilted to look down. Submission.

He is not in control. Still as a statue. Thoughts fade. _Not my_ —GO AWAY. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Go away. Soft cloth pats at the corners of his eyes. Tears mopped up before they can spill and ruin the paint. Solas’ hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. Paint brush on his other cheek. Thin lines.

 _Safe_.

“Color?”

“Blue.” Distant voice. Not his. He is a statue. Solas’ canvas. Statues and canvases don’t speak. Solas keeps painting him. Paintbrush on his cock, rough bristles against soft skin. Soft sigh. Naked, vulnerable. Sensual. Sensuous.

 _Safe_.

No more thoughts. His mind stops whirling as he is rearranged with firm, gentle hands. Warm hands, calloused by a staff and work and painting. They are gentle, but firm. Cheek pressed into the wall behind him. Hand on one shoulder to make it drop. Arm bent and guided gently. Fingers splayed against wet paint. Other arm. Dorian feels it move up, bent and pushed and twisted until Dorian can picture how he is posed.

Arm up, fist curled towards his body. Defensive. Defense. Defended. _A shield?_ Legs moved before he can think. Hip pushed back, the other one pulled forward gently. His body begins to ache, but he doesn’t have to think.

Good boy. You are loved. You are not a mistake.

“ _Damn. That’s hot_.”

New voice. Deep, charged with lust. Dorian flinches and bites his cheek to hold back a whimper. Hand on his chin – gentle, firm. A command. Don’t move.

“You were not invited.” Solas, voice loaded with disapproval. Not for him. Shuffling far away. Dorian feels his calm leaking. Can’t pull it back around him. Naked and vulnerable. Exposed. _Worthless. Weak. Whore. Not my son._ NO. Shaking now, can’t calm down. Hand curled around the back of his neck, thumb stroking gently along his cheek, smearing drying paint. It flakes away and Dorian stills. Thoughts muddling again. Statue. Canvas. He doesn’t have to _think_ here. Nothing. He has to stand still and let Solas paint.

“Color?”

“… _Blue?_ ” Small voice. Shy. _You are a mistake. Weak. Stupid. Worthless. Not my son._

“ _Dorian_. Color?” Firmer this time. Concern. Gentle but commanding. He has to respond. He doesn’t want to think. Don’t think, don’t be _him_ , don’t be anything but a canvas for Solas. Thumb on his cheek, rubs the last of the paint away. A mistake. Worthless. He is a mistake. Sponge on his collarbone. Not to texture paint. Wet. Water. Washing paint away. A mistake. _You are a mistake_.

Dorian whimpers and feels his limbs start to shake. _You are not my son. Abomination. Filth. Pervert._ Disgusting _. You are not my son._

“Blue.” Solas sighs the word. Dorian relaxes minutely as a dry cloth scrapes over his collarbone and breast, wiping away the last of the wet paint there. A brush drags across his collarbone and down to circle his nipple. Cold. He doesn’t shiver. _Desired. Not a mistake._ New paint. New paint covers him. He is not a mistake. Brush over his defending arm.

He is not a mistake.

Solas’ hand in his hair, blunt fingernails scraping gently across his scalp. “Good boy.” Hand moves to his chin, fingers push his chin gently up, press his cheek against the wall. _Defiant_. Not a mistake. Relax. Dorian sighs softly and feels the tension bleed away. He is not worthless. Sigh. Relief. Content. He is not worthless.

Paint on his hips, stretches across his belly. Drips down to his thighs. Exposed. Vulnerable. _Defended. Safe._ He is not worthless. He is wanted. He is _loved_.

“ _Look_.”

He is running, in motion, looking forward. Bright color, suggested motion. Magic crackles off him. Dark paint, bright splashes of color. Intricate and beautiful and…

_You are safe._

_You are wanted._

_You are_ loved.

**Author's Note:**

> So, as it turns out, I can be nice to Dorian. Sort of.
> 
> [This](http://vivantartphotography.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/bodypaint_gallery_135.jpg) is what Dorian's body paint looks like in this story.


End file.
